


Mission Endurance

by JuxtaposeFantasy



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-03
Updated: 2015-08-03
Packaged: 2018-04-12 19:59:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4492710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JuxtaposeFantasy/pseuds/JuxtaposeFantasy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a rough, dangerous night on the streets, all Napoleon wants to do is rest and recover. But the mission demands more from him and Illya is there to help him through it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mission Endurance

**Author's Note:**

> Another trailer fic. Still haven't heard a word of them speaking, but it probably doesn't matter as much in this fic.

Napoleon fell through the roof.

He hadn't fallen to it from a great height, and the roof itself had consisted of corrugated metal laid loosely over rotting wooden beams, but hitting it and then crashing to the bare concrete foundation beneath it had still hurt. Had still knocked the breath from his lungs and made him question how many bones he'd broken and whether the black spots dancing before his eyes would go away anytime soon.

And it wasn't as if the falling through the roof part had been the end of it, or even the worse of it. Previous to that had been the thugs armed with broken bottles and pipes. Five of them to his and Illya's two. Following the fall through the roof came impact with the car that had tried to cut Napoleon in half but succeeded, thanks to his last-minute jump, in tossing him up and over the windshield, roof and trunk of the car. Napoleon had ended up landing on the road behind it on his feet, like a cat, and had nearly smirked at Illya, who had seen the whole thing. Nearly had, until his knees buckled and left Napoleon sprawled dumbly on the asphalt like an unwanted puppet.

It was so pathetic Illya didn't bother to laugh.

"Move," the KGB agent snarled and hooked Napoleon's arm around his shoulders and began to drag him.

Illya was too tall. The moved pulled something sharp and excruciating in Napoleon's chest. He shoved the KGB agent away and staggered a few feet, bent at the waist, hugging his ribs.

"We must go," Illya said, his pale brows drawn down, blue eyes darting to the car that had struck a bus stop after hitting Napoleon. The driver hadn't yet moved from behind the steering wheel, but that might change.

Napoleon nodded his agreement, but continued to fight for his breath. Miles away burned the remains of the warehouse they had been trying to infiltrate. A string of bullets, bodies and sirens led from there to where they stood now, a block or two from their base hotel. A total cock-up, but hopefully not a complete loss. The man they'd come to Ukraine to apprehend, who went by the name Vanko, had not been at the warehouse. With luck, he would not associate Napoleon and Illya with the destruction of his property.

Napoleon straightened upright, though it cost him. Illya had fallen through the roof too. He'd fought the same thugs Napoleon had. Though he'd been spared being hit by a car, he too, had raced through the streets of Yalta like a fox before the hounds. He too had been choked by smoke, singed by fire, and driven by free flowing adrenaline that would surely bite them both in the ass when the action ended and the chemical failed to numb their numerous injuries. 

Napoleon knew that Illya hurt and that he was exhausted. Illya's pale blue eyes were not as bright as they usually were. But the KGB agent stood upright, and that made a difference. It rankled to be in worse shape than Illya, but Napoleon told himself that the damn car was to blame, and he shouldn't be ashamed. He wouldn't give up until Illya did, and not even then. He'd carry the huge Russian bastard on his broken back if he had to. Napoleon Solo did not fail missions because of a little discomfort.

"Go," Napoleon rasped. "I'm right behind you."

Illya didn't ask him if he was sure. He took off in his long, loping stride, eating up more distance than Napoleon could. They didn't reach the hotel together, but it was close enough. Napoleon paused beside the other agent in the alley outside the hotel, both of them breathing deeply, trying to calm themselves. They checked each other out to make sure they were passable and the hotel staff wouldn't be able to associate them, by looking at them, with the mayhem that had occurred across town.

Like two bored gentlemen, they walked inside and rode the elevator up without issue. No one looked at them twice, even though Napoleon hadn't quite been able to hide his limp and Illya's face had begun to show the strain of an unacknowledged injury.

They checked their room for signs of entry but the defensive measures they'd taken were all intact. Relieved, Napoleon dragged himself inside. He imagined he carried the stench of fire and gunpowder with him.

"That was not good," he said, pausing beside the sideboard just inside the door. Little tremors worked their way through his body.

Illya grimaced and strode to the wet bar. He poured himself a large vodka, tossed it back as though it were water. "We must lay low for the next several days. Recover and regroup."

"Yes."

"No more contact with Vanko," Illya added, looking pointedly at Napoleon.

Napoleon grinned ruefully. "He wouldn't be interested in this battered old thing anyway," he joked, and was awarded with the hunching of Illya's shoulders.

Though he was in business with rebels and criminals throughout North Africa, Afghanistan and portions of the Eastern Bloc, Vanko was not your typical arms dealer. He arrogantly eschewed the close presence of bodyguards, insisting they stay at least twenty feet away from him at all times. He did not allow them to enter the hotels or buildings that he entered, claiming that if they were good at their jobs, they would stop the danger from entering with him.

He was also homosexual.

The mission was based around this little-known fact.

So far, Napoleon and Illya had met with Vanko twice, making their interest in his business known, but also sussing out whether either of them appealed to the arms dealer. Ostensibly, they were both supposed to flirt, but neither of them admitted aloud that this had been Napoleon's mission from the beginning. Illya could be as charming as, well, a Russian KGB agent.

Napoleon, inevitably, was the lucky winner, though nothing had so far happened between him and Vanko. Napoleon would like it to remain that way for a few days longer while he recovered. Then he would finish this off and get them the hell out of there.

He began walking to the wet bar, intent on joining Illya for the next round, when the suite door shivered beneath a bold knock.

Napoleon pulled out his gun. Illya had lost his somewhere along the way but he slid up to the door to hide behind it until he could tackle whoever came through it.

"Mr. Henderson?" came Vanko's voice. "Mr. Henderson, the staff informed me that you are here. I would like to speak with you."

Napoleon dropped his guard, despair washing through him at the realization that he would find no rest until Vanko's visit was satisfied. He looked to Illya and was slightly disturbed to find the agent watching him. Probably measuring Napoleon's likelihood of refusing.

"You will do this," Illya murmured. Napoleon guessed it was the brusque Russian's version of a motivational speech.

Napoleon ran a hand through his sweaty, dirty hair and tried and failed to imagine himself successfully seducing Vanko in his current state of body and mind.

"This is not the best time," he said. He hated himself for the pleading look he turned on Illya. "You know what he wants…"

Illya's left eye twitched. "You are not dead. The mission continues."

In other words, suck it up and do what needed to be done. Napoleon nodded once, decisively, telling himself Illya was right. He was tired and aching but his face hadn't sustained any injuries and if he was clever and creative enough Vanko might never learn that the rest of Napoleon wasn't completely beauty contest ready.

Yes, he could do this. Even if he didn't want to. Not by a longshot.

"Buy me time," he told Illya, resignedly, "while I clean up some."

Illya's voice was strange as he said, "Take your time. He will want to see you at your best."

As Napoleon wet a hand towel in the bathroom basin and cleaned his face and hands of blood and dirt and brushed gunpowder and glass out of his hair, he thought of Illya's words and how he'd said them. 

Did he look down on Napoleon for being willing to run an operation like this? Not many men were game for it, Napoleon knew. Those men also didn't rise through the ranks as he had. To be the best meant you had to give your all. You couldn't refuse your masters no matter what they asked of you.

But maybe Illya was one of the ones who had, and therefore held little respect for Napoleon even if he did succeed in gaining important information and making high-priority apprehensions. Maybe for a staunch Russian like Illya, Napoleon was little more than a whore.

"Maybe," Napoleon murmured as he looked himself over with satisfaction in the mirror, "but that also makes me the better agent."

He could live with that.

Tidied, prettied as much as possible considering the circumstances, Napoleon took a deep breath to center himself. He winced as needles of pain stabbed through his chest. God, did he hurt. And his head was beginning to throb with the headache of all headaches.

He gave in, leaned one hand against the wall and allowed himself to feel it all. It was nearly crushing. He had to bite his tongue to hold back a groan of misery.

You can do this, he told himself. 

A few tumbles and a bit of back alley brawling wouldn't stop him from doing his job. He was Napoleon Solo, damnit.

Besides, Illya would never let him live this down if he fell through.

When he entered the suite's living room again, it was to find Illya seated stiffly in a chair facing the cocktail table and the loveseat. Vanko sat in the middle of the loveseat, leaving a half cushion on either side of him for Napoleon to take. That or the remaining chair beside Illya, but they weren't all here for Napoleon to play coy.

"Sorry to keep you waiting," Napoleon said to the arms dealer and flashed him his winningest smile. "Needed to freshen up a bit. Not used to Ukrainian summers."

"Not used to Ukraine," Vanko said, beaming at Napoleon when Napoleon obediently chose to sit close beside him on the loveseat. Vanko wasn't wearing his customary suit, only trousers and a button down shirt. Casual tonight. Meaning this was purely a social call despite the burning of his warehouse. Vanko was an odd duck, but then, they'd known that from his dossier.

"But Ukraine," Vanko went on, still smiling, acting as though he were unaware of anything that had happened in the city this evening, "holds many charms." 

He proceeded to list them.

Napoleon nodded where appropriate and expressed his interest in what the man was saying, but all he wanted to do was shut his eyes and pass out. He might have actually done so. He blinked once and found himself dazedly returning Illya's icy gaze. With a mental shake, he pulled himself back into the game and began flirting and laughing with Vanko, ignoring Illya who watched it all.

Finally, he felt Vanko’s fingertips glide along the shoulder seam of his suitcoat and the man’s hand settle on the sofa just behind Napoleon’s neck. He was acutely aware of the position of that hand and what it suggested might soon unfold. Resentment flared, but he swiftly batted it down. This was what the mission was about. He couldn't be angry that it was playing out as he and his handlers had intended it should.

Napoleon projected perfect ease as he continued his empty conversation with the dealer, even though Napoleon was becoming aware of a growing tension from the other side of the room. He risked a glance at Illya again. This time the KGB agent was staring intently at Vanko’s arm where it disappeared behind Napoleon’s shoulder. He looked as though he were attempting to laser the dealer’s hand off with the force of his icy blue gaze.

Napoleon was surprised, though of course, he didn’t show it. But it made him consider the tall, cold Russian in a new light. Could Illya be jealous? Be feeling protective? Or was the answer more likely that he abhorred men of Vanko’s persuasion? Illya wasn’t a very good undercover agent if he allowed his personal feelings to show so transparently, Napoleon thought. How would he react in the next few seconds when Napoleon did what he did not want to do but must, for the sake of the mission?

Better not to think on it, only act. That mantra had carried Napoleon through the worst and ugliest situations. The upcoming moments held hints they might soon join the ranks of such.

“My friend,” Napoleon said, speaking into the lull that fell after Vanko’s last comment about the weather. Were they really speaking about impending rainfall when half the city was on fire and the air rang with the sound of sirens? Napoleon looked to Illya to let him know he was the ‘friend’ in question. “Did you forget about your appointment with Katerina?” Napoleon made a show of checking his watch whose face, he noticed to his dismay, was cracked, probably when he’d raised his arm to fend off the pipe that one of the thugs had tried to crack over Napoleon’s head. Napoleon’s forearm throbbed in belated remembrance.

“Appointment?” Illya was worthless as an actor, his bewilderment laced with aggression, as though he were preparing to argue that he knew nothing of what Napoleon was talking about. The prospect of following Napoleon’s lead probably never entered his mind.

Napoleon tried to send a message with his eyes and hoped the big lug got the message. “Katerina, she of the not inconsiderable talents?”

Vanko chuckled. Looked down. Smoothed a pleat in his trousers with the hand that wasn’t now curled against the collar of Napoleon’s jacket. “Her talents must not be that considerable. Boris appears unimpressed.”

Illya at least remembered that his name was ‘Boris’ during this exchange. His blue eyes grew hooded as he looked from Vanko to Napoleon. To Napoleon’s relief, he gave a curt nod. “Katerina.”

Breathing a sigh of relief that this farce wouldn’t be blown before it could begin, Napoleon smiled. “Katerina. I believe you’re overdue to meet her at the Café Imperial.”

Illya nodded again, but he showed no intention of rising from his chair. It was an effort to keep the lazy smile on Napoleon’s face as he waited for the other agent to leave him and Vanko alone. Didn’t Illya get it?

When Illya continued to act mulelishly, Napoleon shut his eyes, giving in to a wave of exhaustion that nearly toppled him. He didn’t want to do this with Vanko. Maybe he would have felt differently had he been in perfect health. And slightly inebriated. No, much inebriated.

Seeing as he was neither of those things currently, just bone-deep fatigued and perhaps suffering from a touch of shock, Napoleon dreaded what would come when Illya finally left him and Vanko alone together. But dread was something Napoleon dealt with and overcame on a regular basis. Being an agent of the CIA might seem glamorous much of the time, but in truth it was filled with alternating instances of brain-numbing boredom, terror and this: the swallowing down of the unpalatable.

Vanko wanted him. It might seal the deal. And so the math was easy: Vanko would have him.

Never mind that Napoleon suspected he himself might be slightly concussed, or that at least one of his ribs was cracked and would be hell to ignore in the next several minutes that he spent with Vanko. Lives were at stake. The safety of nations. His own needs were nothing in the face of those things, and he accepted that without qualms.

Still, deep down, he wished he didn’t appeal to Vanko’s tastes. All Napoleon wanted was to take a hot bath, wrap his ribs, and collapse into a healing slumber.

Finally, after what seemed a glacial age, Illya rose to his feet. Napoleon was so relieved that he momentarily sank back against Vanko’s hand. The dealer’s fingers touched the bare skin of his neck, just beneath his hairline.

Something must have shown on Napoleon's face when Vanko touched him. A faint hint of his private distaste. For Illya’s hands clenched into fists and for an alarming second Napoleon thought the KGB agent would launch himself at Vanko and blow the entire mission.

Instead, Illya nodded. Formally. As icy and untouchable as the statue of Lenin. “Gentlemen. If you will excuse me, I should not keep a lady waiting.”

“Especially when she isn’t much of one, eh?” Vanko said with a dirty chuckle.

Illya had regained control over himself. Only a single muscle jumping in his jaw revealed he hadn’t appreciated the joke. “Indeed.” He bowed again, like a Russian tsar, and strode to the doorway as though he couldn’t leave the room quickly enough.

Napoleon very carefully tucked away the shame that arose at that.

After the door had clicked shut, Vanko dropped all pretense. “You are not well,” he said. He tested the waters, placing his hand lightly on the back of Napoleon’s neck. When the touch wasn’t rebuffed, he massaged the muscles there. “You are too tense. Does Yalta not agree with you?” He glanced unconcernedly at the open balcony, where the sounds of disaster continued to clutter the night. “I admit it is often a difficult place, but it can be made more bearable in the company of good friends.”

What do you want from me, Vanko? Napoleon thought impatiently. He was too tired to string this out. He was tempted, in a pique of madness, to begin unbuttoning his shirt, just to get things moving.

Pangs were coming from the vicinity of his chest. Definitely a cracked rib. Maybe more than one. Something was wrong with his left hip where it had struck the windshield. A scrape on his knee was beginning to burn. He might be bleeding into the fabric of his trousers. Would Vanko find these things a turn-on?

“I’m sure you’re right,” Napoleon said, putting all of his discomforts aside, focusing on the job. The hellish, self-sacrificing job. "Pleasing company can make all the difference."

Vanko's response was a smile that was sly and hungry. Napoleon hated it.

He imagined himself working not for the CIA but alongside Illya behind the Iron Curtain. He doubted Illya’s masters had ever asked him to do this sort of job, even though Illya was handsome in his own way, if you liked them big, aloof and mysterious. Napoleon could see the appeal, certainly. He had looked at Illya more than once in a non-professional capacity.

A finger at the edge of his jaw, hooking beneath his chin, pulled him out of his musings. Vanko had ceased being subtle, thank God, and was staring at Napoleon’s mouth.

“Would you like me to prove how pleasing I can be?” the dealer asked softly.

Napoleon cocked his brow, but didn’t move toward the other man. Best not to appear too eager, too easy. This was supposed to be a trade, after all, something of Napoleon for something of Vanko. Hopefully the latter being something vitally useful to the mission.

“You are an extraordinarily handsome man, Mr. Henderson,” Vanko said. 

“Thank you,” Napoleon said, struggling not to do something uncharacteristic, such as flinch when Vanko’s thumb brushed across his lips.

“And you are interesting company as well. I can easily envision the two of us traveling together. I promise you that Eastern Europe has much more to offer than what you have seen in this corner of Ukraine.”

There was the bait. Napoleon nodded, showing more interest. He couldn’t come out and say, Just tell me when you're meeting with Yevhen. Such information would come much later, after sweat, gripping hands, and Napoleon pretending to surrender everything of himself to the other man. Then, only then, would Vanko bare his secrets to him.

Napoleon would rather fall off another roof, frankly.

He thought that in another minute he might become ill. The adrenaline that had served him so well thirty minutes ago was now rapidly draining and leaving him strung out and ragged. Vanko’s scent—a combination of soapy cologne, sweat, and Turkish cigarette—threatened to purge Napoleon’s stomach. 

Vanko’s thumb slid into his mouth, tasting of salt and cordite. Napoleon tensed, about to fling himself away, about to blow the weeks of hard work he and Illya had put in, when alarms screamed throughout the hotel.

Vanko jumped back from Napoleon. The hand that had been on Napoleon’s mouth closed into an ineffectual fist. He was unarmed, Napoleon decided, but it made little difference. He couldn't arrest Vanko before the meeting with Yevhen.

The doors of the suite burst open, disgorging a mussed, wild-eyed Illya. “There is a fire on the upper floors. It may have been deliberately set. We must evacuate!”

Adrenaline sputtered through Napoleon’s limbs, just enough to power him to his feet. “Vanko, we must get you out of here.”

But the dealer was far quicker, already moving toward the door.

“I’ve arranged for your men to meet you at the second floor landing,” Illya told Vanko urgently. “They’ll take you out the side entrance so you won’t be caught up with the rest of the guests. There will be a car waiting for you.”

“Good. Good,” Vanko said, distracted, thinking only of fire and finally, perhaps, of his burning warehouse. 

Only at the last second, pausing near the door beside Illya, did Vanko look back at Napoleon, who remained standing beside the sofa, subtly bracing himself against one arm of it. 

“I will find you,” Vanko said to him. 

Beside him, Illya’s mouth drew into a pale, grim line.

Vanko probably considered the statement a promise. But Napoleon was slapped by it as though it were a threat. It took effort to bring up a challenging half-smile. “I’ll hold you to that.”

Vanko flashed him a grin, one conspirator to another, and then was gone, hounded by the blaring sirens.

Napoleon moved to the doorway too, but Illya held up his hand and then shut the door. He leaned against it. Locked it behind him.

“I pulled the alarm,” he said, cool again. Nothing like the frantic man who’d burst in on Napoleon and Vanko. Apparently he could act after all. “I used smoke bombs in the corridor. He won’t suspect.”

“You interrupted—“ Napoleon began, but then closed his mouth. His shoulders slumped. He found the sofa by touch and dropped to it. “Thank you,” he breathed out.

Illya grunted.

“I would have done it,” Napoleon said, glancing quickly at the KGB agent to be sure he understood that Napoleon wasn’t an amateur who couldn't finish a mission. But something on Illya’s strong face told him that Illya hadn’t needed the assurance.

“We will get the information another way,” Illya said quietly. Roughly. As though he were angry.

Napoleon lay his head back on the sofa, felt the room spin. 

“Do you require a doctor?”

Napoleon was surprised by the other man's concern but wise enough not to show it. “I don’t know. I don't think so.” He groaned beneath his breath as a million hurts abruptly flooded his senses at once. “Maybe. For now I need to just…stop.”

He disliked admitting weakness to a man who had shown at every opportunity that he valued strength and competency above all else. Though Napoleon possessed ample amounts of both of those things, tonight he had been pushed to his limits, both physical and mental.

The cushion beside him sank. Napoleon cracked open an eye, wary. Illya was staring at Napoleon's left fist, where the knuckles were scraped and bloodied. Thankfully Vanko hadn't been as observant, too busy staring at Napoleon's mouth.

"This mission is bad," Illya said softly, almost to himself. "What they ask of us—of you—I do not like it."

Napoleon stared at him, his pains fading as a sense of wonder began to fill him. Illya never spoke badly of his orders. Nor had he ever shown sympathy for Napoleon personally.

"You are not a doll to be handed out," Illya went on, still scowling at Napoleon's injured hand. "You are a man. We are both men."

His gaze jumped up, holding guilt that shouldn’t have existed had the words' meaning been as simple as they'd seemed. 

No, it held guilt because he'd meant something else.

"Yes," Napoleon said carefully, "we are both men. That's not a problem, is it, Illya?"

Illya frowned, at first trying to pretend he didn't understand. But he wasn't a boy, and he'd lived through far too much to lie to himself, or to Napoleon. The mounting fear and excitement on his face said as much.

"I do not think it is a problem," he said, just as slowly.

Napoleon hurt like a son of a bitch, but he managed to smile. He lifted his bruised hand and laid it atop Illya's knee. The other agent didn't move it away, though he looked ready to jump out of his skin.

Napoleon closed his eyes and felt himself sinking into a sleep he knew he wouldn't be able to resist. Hours from now, after they'd both recovered somewhat, he'd revisit the topic. Push Illya and see how close to the edge the stoic Russian was willing to tread.

It would be dangerous, certainly. Like poking a Russian bear. But also thrilling and potentially explosive. Falling off a roof would be nothing compared to falling for the intimidating enigma that was Illya Kuryakin.

Maybe, was Napoleon's last thought, I already have.

**Author's Note:**

> Check out my site if you want to know more about me and my writing http://www.triciaowensbooks.com


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